


Sherlock's Imaginary John

by AurorFelicis3755



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurorFelicis3755/pseuds/AurorFelicis3755
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew that, at a young age, having an imaginary friend was a normal part of the human brain’s development.<br/>Sherlock knew that, when a child grows up friendless, it is common to invent a companion to abate loneliness.<br/>Sherlock knew these things; but he still refused to tell anyone about John.</p><p>Sherlock has grown up alone and isolates himself, expressing himself only to his imaginary friend John. But what if John wasn't as imaginary as Sherlock thinks? And could Sherlock ever connect with someone outside his head?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attack in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock’s thought speech is in italics.  
> Imaginary John’s speech is in bold italics.  
> Sherlock lives in a made up English city, because I don’t know enough about London boroughs to know which would work for this story, so it was easier to use a made-up place.

Sherlock knew that, at a young age, having an imaginary friend was a normal part of the human brain’s development.

Sherlock knew that, when a child grows up friendless, it is common to invent a companion to abate loneliness.

Sherlock knew these things; but he still refused to tell anyone about John.

As long as Sherlock could remember, John had been there too. He thought he must’ve picked up the name from conversation around him in early life, and attached it to a face and personality. John never had an appearance in solid form to Sherlock, but they would converse in his head and he was such a comfort to his young self. When he was ruthlessly bullied at school, John reminded him that the bullies were so thick they would be lucky to get a job at all, whereas Sherlock had his pick of any ambition. When he was moved to a new school and universally ignored by everyone, John had gossiped about the other pupils with him and laughed at his jokes. In short, Sherlock didn’t mind being isolated even from his own family if John was in his head.

However, at the age of 18, he had started to run out of psychological explanations for why he still needed his imaginary companion. He could only imagine the merciless teasing he would get from his older brother Mycroft for indulging in something so illogical and sentimental. As such, Sherlock’s only friend remained a secret.

 

* * *

 

 

**_You’re insane, Sherlock._ **

_I know._

**_Awww, don’t be like that! You know I hate Mycroft as much as you do, but hacking into his online bank account? Crazy. A bad idea, Sherlock – a rare thing from you._ **

_Look, I’m busy. Help me with this security question._

**_It’s illegal._ **

_It’s payback. Payback doesn’t count._

**_Your comprehensive knowledge of the law doesn’t agree._ **

_He told Mum it was me that broke the microwave with that pig’s heart._

**_But that_ was _you!_**

_I would’ve got away with it._

**_Stop huffing. You don’t know the name of Mycroft’s first pet any more than I do. Let’s give this up._ **

**_Check the local news. A new case would cheer you up._ **

Night was falling outside the bedroom window. Sherlock sat at his computer, John vaguely to his left. As he scrolled through various sites, a new wave of boredom hit him, making him swivel around on his desk chair in restlessness.

_Nothing good. Nothing interesting. What a pointless day._

**_You could have dinner. You haven’t eaten since this morning. Oh, but of course, your Mum sent you here with no dinner. Because you broke the microwave. Right._ **

_Shut up._

**_No. I’m in your head. Whatcha gonna do?_ **

_Crap, you’re right._

**_It happens sometimes, you know. You really should eat. Any food hidden up in here?_ **

_There are some sausages in the wardrobe. I was experimenting with footprints in meat products._

**_That was last week. You can’t eat them. Plus they were raw._ **

_It’s fine, I’m not hungry._

**_You are._ **

_Am not._

**_Sneak out. Go to Angelo’s. Have some chips or something. Take a trip to Greenwood.  Your family would never know._ **

_Bathroom window leads onto the porch roof, then just a short jump. I could make it._

**_Do it._ **

            

Sherlock wandered along the dark street, barely noticing the cold. He spouted deductions about passers-by to John as he walked, enjoying the feeling of freedom from the captivity of his small suburban home. Angelo’s all-night café was in a much rougher area of the city – much more interesting to Sherlock. Criminals crawled the Greenwood estate’s streets at night. His parents didn’t like him going over there, but they always had been a touch overprotective. His snoozing, upmarket estate, Welford, was much safer. Much more _boring._

Towering blocks of council flats surrounded the boy now, but he was tall and not afraid. He wasn’t alone, not when he had John. And anyway, these days Sherlock felt he had very little to lose, so he had no cause for fear. He was safe from anything hurting him as long as he kept everything locked up in his head. Any feelings he had were shared only with John.

A sudden shriek ripped the still night sky in half and Sherlock spun on the spot, determining the source. Whimpers, moans and sobs were coming from a narrow alleyway, filled with sacks of rubbish and a deep darkness. Sherlock plunged in.

“Who’s making that noise?”

Muffled noises now. And a voice in the dark.

“Little boys should be at home at this time of night.” A woman.

A passing car illuminated the scene for a split second: a man – husband, presumably – held against the crumbling brick wall, a knife held towards him, and Sherlock, a few steps away. Then the wave of darkness crashed back down.

“That’s not how you should hold that knife,” Sherlock stated flatly.

“What?” The criminal was wrong-footed.

“You aren’t holding that knife correctly. You could hardly make a scratch like that.”

“Look here, you smart-arse twat, I can and will kill you with this knife, however I hold it.”

“Go on then. Have a go. I bet I won’t even bleed.”

With a slight growl, the knife-wielder pounced. The darkness was an advantage to Sherlock, which he desperately needed, as his bluff would be revealed if she hit her target and seriously wounded the boy. He dodged her first blow, receiving a scratch to his forearm instead of the intended chest wound.

“Posh little fucker!” She swept the knife around randomly, hoping to hit flesh. She was so close, Sherlock could smell the whiskey on her breath. He felt the knife fly through the air towards him before he felt the impact of it – a slice across the face. Blood trickled into his mouth and Sherlock decided it had been long enough for the victim to make a getaway. A swift kick into the darkness caused his attacker to be incapacitated long enough for him to run.

**_Jesus Christ Sherlock! RUN!_ **

_Oh, should I run? I thought I would stick around, wait for her to get up. I thought that would be a really smart plan. What would I do without your genius ideas, John?_

Blood mixed with sweat across Sherlock’s face as he sprinted a complex route across the estate. He cursed his stupidity – he had gone out without his mobile. Unfortunately, at this point he needed police assistance. The local police force knew him well, and he wasn’t held fondly in their hearts. They made a lot of fuss about ‘contaminating crime scenes’ and ‘against regulations’, and he still wasn’t forgiven when he solved all their cases for them. But he couldn’t handle this one alone.

**_Find a shop. Somewhere will be open. Ask to use their phone._ **

_Businesses in this area open 24 hours: a Tesco’s, the King’s Heart pub, and… we’re close by Angelo’s. He’s most likely to help with the required urgency. Next left, then._

In a couple of minutes he could see Angelo’s across the street, and allowed himself to slow a little to catch his breath.

**_Unexpectedly exciting evening, hey? I know really how to take your mind off your brother._ **

_If you were real, I would probably strangle you. I happen to be covered in blood._

**_You loved it though. The thrill of saving the day, reasoning it out._ **

_Not my favourite kind of criminal, but nonetheless, yes, it was less mind numbing than an evening in my bedroom._

                He pushed open the battered door of the greasy all-night café. A high pitched bell tinkled somewhere above his head.

**_While you’re here why not grab a bite to eat?_ **

_Priorities, John._

**_After that run, you must need something. A drink? Maybe just a-_ **

“-coffee. Please.”

Sherlock stopped. Not only his physical motions, but his brain ground to a halt to. He could deduce someone’s height from a footprint, he could tell breeds of dog apart from their hairs, but this. This, his brain couldn’t process.

Because John had spoken outside his head.


	2. The Blood Won't Wash Off

**_Sherlock, don’t do this, you know it’s mad._ **

_No one wants me here. I can get away from this, if I want. I know how to get out. The Matron won’t lock the schoolhouse until she goes to bed herself, and when her favourite TV programme comes on, she doesn’t notice anything-_

**_Then what? You can’t live out there alone, you’re 8 years old! Use your enormous brain!_ **

_Actually my brain is normally sized, or I would need to see a doctor quite urgently. What you mean is that I use it. And I’m using it now. I know it will be hard to live as a runaway, but honestly, could it be worse than living here?_

**_I know it’s bad._ **

_So shut up. I have to get myself out of this._

* * *

 

Somehow, the 18 year old Sherlock was reminded of this moment as he stood, blood-soaked and lost for words in the doorway of Angelo’s Café. He had succeeded in leaving the schoolhouse, but after that… he didn’t like to think about what had happened that night. But the next day he changed schools and he hadn’t been off guard for a second since. Until now.

This man, this boy… looking at him, he was between the two words. His dirty blonde hair cut in a boyish style, but with light fuzz around his chin. Sherlock observed him in profile, and as his mind booted up again he started to take him in with his usual detail. Short, but well built, strong. Medical student. About 20. Lives with his parents. They aren’t well off. He’s come straight from a date with a girl he didn’t have much interest in. It went badly.

Sherlock was suddenly aware that he was being stared at by several of Angelo’s late-night customers. It had taken him longer than usual to notice this, and that realisation disturbed him. He had been shaken by the stranger. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Sherlock Holmes.

“Ahhh, Sherlock! Do you perhaps need to get cleaned up a little?” Angelo was speaking. It wasn’t important.

**_Yes it was, idiot._ **

“Perhaps. I assume you have a sink here?”

“Of course! And you may use it as much as you like, my dearest Sherlock! And any food or drink, on the house!” Sherlock followed Angelo behind the counter to a small sink. He could still see the customers from here. He could still see the blonde man.

“Wild night, was it?”

_Oh, ha ha._

But no, it wasn't John, it was this man with his John’s voice. And that was exactly what John would’ve said, some stupid joke. Not worth wasting the oxygen on it, and he would’ve said so, if Angelo hadn’t come back at that moment with towels and a mug of coffee.

“For you, Sherlock, help yourself, on the house!”

“Mates’ rates?” The blonde was leaning on the counter, sipping his drink and watching Sherlock wipe his face with a towel.

"Ah, Mr Holmes here is a fantastic man! I was on trial for murder, and Sherlock found the evidence to prove my innocence! I owe him my freedom!” The blonde leant forward in apparent interest. “It’s what he does, a sort of hobby, solving crimes. The police let him help sometimes, he’s very good.” Angelo finished his little speech of praise, then skidded off to serve bald man in tracksuit bottoms and a safety jacket who had just entered the café.

“Amateur sleuth, are you? Is that how you got in this mess, on the trail of some crook?” And he smiled. Sherlock didn’t quite know what happened to him when this smile hit him, but it felt comforting and terrifying at the same time and he wanted to both run away and stay with this smile forever.

"Erm- Consulting Detective. And I wasn’t really ‘on the case’ – I just happened to bump into a maniac with a knife.”

“That cut on your face looks bad. You should get it checked out.”

“Of course. Medical student. Think you know everything already.”

“I- wait- how did you know that?”

“I also know that you still live at home, and that you came here after a particularly disastrous date.”

“Wow… I can’t believe this. It’s like you’re reading my mind!” Sherlock had been thinking something very similar, even though it went against all logic and reason. This man spoke just like John. He _was_ John. In a minute, he’d be fussing over Sherlock, doing the little mother hen routine that John always did.

“That wound really looks bad. I could look at it if you like, clean it up so it doesn’t get infected.” This was too much. This must be some sort of very vivid dream, or an elaborate prank by Mycroft. He couldn’t take this. He ducked out from behind the counter and ran out of the door.

He leant against café wall, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He couldn’t even talk to John about it – that just confused things further. He was truly alone, for the first time in years.

The door tinkled softly open, and Sherlock looked round, suddenly alert. Why was this man following him?

“Was it something I said?” He was only half joking. Sherlock just looked at the shorter man. “Please… take something to wipe up the blood with, at least.” He dug out a not-quite-clean tissue from his pocket and held it out. Reluctantly, Sherlock took it, holding it to his face.

“I can clean it myself, you know.”

“I will add that to mind reading on your list of incredible talents.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, then he turned to walk away.

“Wait!”

What did he _want_? He looked back.

"It was amazing. How you worked out everything about me.” He blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected. “I hope we meet again, Sherlock Holmes.”

Unsure how to respond, he stuck out his hand in a sort of half wave. The other man misinterpreted and seized his palm, shaking it with a confident and strong movement.

“My name is Watson. John Watson,” he said, and he smiled.

_John._


	3. School and Sherlock Don't Mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after his encounter with Dr Watson, the plot continues. (I never know what to put here so there's no spoilers.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with this so far! I have properly planned out the plot now, so I hope you guys like what you read.

The next morning, Sherlock couldn't seem focus at all. He was supposed to be revising for his upcoming A Level exams, but the textbook’s descriptions of chemical formulas was so _boring._ The classrooms were boring, the teachers were boring, and the other students were boring. He was just deciding which explosives might blow up this school in the most impressive way - and how he would make sure that the act was blamed on Mycroft – when unbidden thoughts entered his head, in the voice of John.

**_So, weird last night, wasn't it? That guy?_ **

**_You don’t believe that._ **

_Perhaps I met him as a child and my subconscious made you like him. You aren't real, you know._

**_That is very rude, Mr Holmes!_ **

_That’s what I do best, isn't it?_

**_Well, it’s a close second to showing off. So, are you gonna see him again?_ **

_Don’t be dense, John. Why would I see him again?_

**_He wasn’t boring. You’re intrigued._ **

_Lots of things aren’t boring. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do them all._

**_There’s nothing you wouldn’t do if you were bored enough! This is one of the more sensible ideas! He can’t be that hard to find._ **

_And what do you want me to do, turn up on his doorstep? I have better things to do with my time._

Sherlock went back to the textbook, idly flipping pages to find something interesting.

**_He’s a medical student. He’ll be at the university._ **

He grunted in annoyance, and worked his way through the class deducing what they’d had for lunch. He was alone at his table, and he was glad about this as he thought about the breath of the girl who’d had garlic bread an hour ago.

**_You could just go down, and have a look around. Maybe you see him, maybe you don’t._ **

Sherlock watched the second hand of the plain clock on the classroom wall tick round. 5 minutes and 14 seconds to go…

**_You haven’t been to the morgue in a while. Molly will be missing you!_ **

John’s teasing tone was really starting to get on Sherlock’s nerves. He had no interest in Molly, the timid forensic science first year, but she certainly seemed to have an interest in him. She always just happened to be in the morgue when he was there, trying to think. He had no patience with her. She slowed things down.

_There’s no cases right now. And I’m definitely not going if Molly might be there._

**_You’re so mean, Sherlock! Accept some love for once. You can’t stay cold and detached forever!_ **

_Watch me._

The bell rang, signalling the end of the school day. Sherlock grabbed his things and shoved them into his messy backpack. It was easier to get away if he was quick.

Sherlock raced down a maze of corridors and staircases, and burst out of a dented door on the side of the concrete cube of a school he’d been imprisoned in for the last few hours. Although it was muddy, cutting across the school field was safer than using the main gate to go home. It was an annoying but necessary precaution to avoid the idiots who went to this school, those who Sherlock had accidentally offended during his few years there.

It had been raining earlier in the day, according to how wet the grass was on Sherlock’s leather lace-ups as he navigated past assorted bins, trees and sports equipment left on the field. Not many others used this gate, and Sherlock allowed himself off guard for a few minutes as he walked.

_It’s going to rain again. In about half an hour._

**_And you forgot your umbrella. Idiot._ **

_I didn’t forget it! Mycroft broke it._

"Sherlock! It’s been a while. Don’t say you’ve been avoiding us.” Raucous laughter. Sherlock’s heart sank. He’d left the school grounds, and was now in a quiet suburban street. A bus stop sheltered a collection of teenagers in disheveled school uniform, with malicious grins stretched across their faces. They gathered around Sherlock, leaving no room for escape.

“You know, I think he has. Did mummy never tell you that was rude?”

“Why wouldn’t I avoid you, Charlie? Whenever I come near you, you get your friends to attack me. I would think that the logical course of action would be to stay away. Plus there’s your frankly awful smell of body odour. Maybe your mother should’ve told _you_ about deodorant.”

“Ooh, posh-boy’s got a mouth on him!”

“Did you just insult my mum, you piece of crap?!”

“Oh, touchy about your mother, aren’t you? Maybe it’s because of her illness that you don’t want to tell anyone about. I don’t see why, and it’s clearly causing you a lot of stress; it’s something mental, isn’t-”

His sentence was punctuated by a punch in the stomach, by the leader of the group, Charlie. “Don’t you dare call my mum mental! What the hell is wrong with you?!” His face, this time. His vision blurred and he staggered backwards.

“That’s bang out of order mate, that’s the guy’s mum!” Sherlock was on the floor, and he couldn’t see a way out. There were too many here. He would just have to wait until they got bored and left him alone. He tried to distract himself from the attack, deducing the models of passing cars by the noises of their engines, but it was difficult; Charlie seemed to know exactly where to hit to cause most pain. A Ford Focus, a Peugeot 308, and this… was a bus, it was stopping at the shelter, and… a Citroen…? A different voice… who… how… The scene around him faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are unfamiliar with the English education system, Sherlock is in his last year of school, and A Levels are the exams that determine if/where you get into university. Clearly Sherlock is studying chemistry, but I didn't do A Levels because I'm not smart enough so I know nothing about A Level chemistry so it's kind of vague there, sorry! I'm not sure whether lots of schools had a gate to get out through the back of the field, but I know that some do, and it worked nicely with the plot for it to lead onto the street, so that's how it is.  
> Charlie's name is inspired by Charles Augustus Magnussen, because I couldn't think of a name and so I thought I'd take one from canon, although their characters aren't really similar.  
> I also know nothing about cars, but these are all real cars because I looked them up online. I'm very dedicated to this fic.


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